“Ours is essentially a tragic age; and so we refuse to take it tragically.” So begins the greatest post-World War I novel ever written.

With the exception of perhaps Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, by
D. H. Lawrence, is my favorite novel of all time. The final version, published in 1928, is a tale about the collapse of western civilization in microcosm; detailed in the adulterous love affair between the novel’s anti-heroine, Constance Chatterley, the wife of a war-crippled lord, and woodsman agrarian, Mellor. Upon its publication it was deemed pornography and censored. It was also Lawrence’s final novel (his body of work fell victim of government and public reprisal) to be widely available to the public. Within less than two years from its publication, he was dead at 44.

What Lawrence illustrated so tragically and beautifully, was the reality that after the Great War, Europe was devastated in a way few in the West can comprehend now. Today, television series abound in apocalyptic shows, feeding a public hungry for the twisted and surreal. After 1918, the twisted and surreal had become commonplace for women of European nations. They had seen one-fourth of their men slaughtered, and upon the return of those that survived, the scars of mechanized warfare were evident every day.

In England—which technically won the war; though nothing was truly won—the effects were contradictory, but it didn’t matter. The landed stock was decimated. The value system that constructed the British Empire since the days of Elizabeth I was finished. It is no surprise that the 1920s were the first decade of the modern era. There is only so much trauma that people can endure in such a short period. At some point, everything just gives. Particularly in light of the fact that the modern age, for all its devastation, was ironically improving life.

I have a theory: In the past life was a struggle, it was ugly and brutal…so we sought beauty. In the modern age, with an ever-increasing array of comforts, we seek ugliness. Lady Chatterley’s Lover defines this consummately, even with the multitude of contradictions that resulted from its release. Like most great writing, it is awash in irony and paradox. But such is life, and such is history.

In recent decades, Lady Chatterley’s Lover has undergone significant reevaluation. It took until the 50s for the novel to appear in England in its raw form. It was considered a great work of art, which it is, as well as great read. But in the 90s feminist studies challenged this, mainly due to Constance’s finding redemption in sexual fulfillment with a man. This is ironic (again) because the point was that she was liberating herself from an order that destroyed itself though its own devices; the very order that feminists seek to undermine.

It may seem odd to reference a book a decade before its centennial. But I could be dead in a ten years’ time, and I feel compelled to say Lawrence was a genius, one of the most original artists in any age. He recognized the significance of the love between a man a woman, however scandalous. It is the essence of the world. We cannot endure without it. It is forever relevant. Particularly in a time when that relationship has not only fallen under inspection and attack, but some seek to destroy.

“Ours is essentially a tragic age; so we refuse to take it tragically.”

The District Manager by Matt Minor starts slowly but builds to a compelling finish. Mason Dixon takes center stage in telling this tale of his gig as district manager for a Texas State Representative. His assignment to travel the district and handle problems for his boss and his boss’s constituents puts him in the path of good folks and bad and eventually of those who surpass bad.

The plot moves slowly through the beginning chapters. Nothing much seems to be happening until late when Mason Dixon and the reader start putting pieces together to come up with a surprising (or not) conclusion.

The narrative is skillfully constructed from firsthand knowledge to be sure. The array of characters is well developed with each having distinctive characteristics and consistent dialogue. There is something for everyone in this novel—a bit of romance, humor, nail-biting suspense, murder and mayhem and a conclusion to set us all on edge in this political season.

The one typo that caught my eye was in chapter two with the use of slated that likely should have been slatted. Otherwise, the novel is free of distracting errors. Perhaps, with ebooks, the cover is less important but this one works. The notes about the author give insight into the authenticity of the tale. This a book is surely one I would recommend to other readers.

Emissary is highly original science fiction novel in the vein of Robert Heinlein and Stanislaw Lem, with a nod to Bradbury.

Ruell, the ‘Emissary’ of the title, is a fascinatingly original character. Author Chris Rogers does not waste her time diminishing her odd protagonist’s otherworldliness by pandering to our present societal, self-absorbed prejudices. This entity is an alien. It reads like one.

Addison Hale is the President of the United States, and she is one tough lady. While reading the novel, the image that my mind continuously referenced, was not that of any current politician, but rather Chrissy Hynde of the band The Pretenders: a strong woman who carries her burdens without a chip on her shoulder. She manages this even in the face of a very reminiscent VP. This temperance lends her a certain grace.

And the way she and Ruell connect is nothing short of brilliant.

Filled with an assortment of well-developed supporting characters, the novel continuously switches gears at instinctively the right moment.

There are scientific references that sound utterly learned. And through her natural dialogue, Ms. Rogers even throws an occasional bone to current affairs junkies, policy wonks, with dashes of popular culture; melding the unreal and the real together seamlessly.

Emissary is a commitment, intricate and complex, it moves at its own convincing pace. And Ruell’s journey can be very disheartening at times. But the destination most definitely justifies the travel time.

Chris Rogers’ rise among the book world had the good fortune to occur in that last decade before all our art and entertainment fell to corporate mediocrity and the subsequent catering to an intellectually compromised America. Her craft has the rare privilege of existing as just that, a craft. She’s an artist.

When you’re ready for a literate book that will at some point be considered a classic of the genre, sit down with Emissary. It’s a read that will stay with you.

With Galveston Nic Pizzolatto has authored a crime noir novel that spills over into pure southern gothic. Pizzolatto, the creator of the HBO crime series True Detective, abandons the visual script for the literary. The results are impressive.

Roy Cady the protagonist, a true anti-hero, harkens back to the days of Raymond Chandler. The novel drips with so many shadows that it’s not hard to imagine the tale in simple black and white. But this story is anything but simple.

The violence is convincing as is the first person narrative of a desperate, dying man.

The writing style is both lush and tough, filled with lyrical descriptions that alert the senses. This story is alive and as hungry as an alligator.

In a time when all our entertainment is either deliberately twisted or cheesy, Galveston lays bare the human tale of a man on the run from third rate gangsters, accompanied by a young hooker and her small daughter. Roy is under the presumption that he is terminal, which tempers his paranoia into a sublime search for peace.

Chris Rogers is one of few contemporary authors that leave me envious of their craft. Both her storytelling and writing style are as vivid as a painter’s palette; her colorful books capable of appealing to both the general reader and the sophisticate alike.

In Here Lies a Wicked Man, (a Booker Crane Mystery) Chris Rogers handles the genre with an entertainer’s authority. Whereas so much thriller and mystery writing today is so plot driven – basically action and dialogue – Wicked Man’s characters feel like flesh and blood. This is not to say the plot suffers, because it doesn’t. Rather it is enhanced by real humans and not mere props, placed solely to expedite the narrative.

Rogers hits all the pressure points of a good ‘who done it’ without relying on workshop clichés. She accomplishes this with ease.

Chris Rogers is not just a one of modern Texas’ best authors, but the languages’.

Luckily for the reader, (who will be hooked after Here Lies a Wicked Man), her catalog is vast and varied. Good hunting.